My love wears silver annually now so that I might keep the time. He loves my nostalgic face that smells of twilight when he looks away. He loves falling asleep watching my dreams as they collide, playing next to him in our bed. I fall just to watch him back. He loves my telescopic heart made of optical lenses and Saturn’s oldest marbles. What good does it do her to speak of him though, when he is gone? The sadness a heart can inhabit is underestimated. And when your heart collapses he looks at you as to show silently with his eyes of black dripping sugar, that he has seen your face in all the rooms of his head. His eyes reveal his temporary blindness but also the permanent sun in his thick chrome heart. He loves you. This kind of love receives not nearly enough authentic compassion in books and science and the fractured lights of some movies. It is not to say that some do not regard it properly, but truly have you ever been a teenage girl who thought and believed she was in love?
I have lived this Novocain dream; I have inhabited this symphonic silence. There is nothing more wonderful than to lie on your bed revealing your heart under skies and swimming pools which appear to rest above the city; To emerge from the stairwell of your heart and wait for him just to say your name. How can I ever tell you about his bathroom and the mirrors, which sometimes held scraps pf paper which made me suspicious of other girls or a night spent with guitars and cheap cameras? But planes of glass which have seen and held countless faces As my stares wanted to be things of beauty the look which would solidify his dangling love for me.